Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


I am writing a story called Punch Drunk Love. It's about the perfect boyfriend I had who I didn't want. I don't mean that I gave up and ended the relationship only to realize it was perfect - I mean that I ended it because it was. He didn't want me either. Neither of us believe in destiny. We are both fierce lovers. We challenge the universe to work with us, to reveal to us what we desire. . .as our decisions lead us.

Its interesting, the phrase: to reveal to us what we desire. . . Does that mean the object of our desire is revealed to us, or that desire itself is revealed? Either way, I want to be the agent inciting the universe into action; not the other way around which is destiny. I do suppose that destiny may exist - only if it does I'm not settling for it, I'm going beyond it into what Buddhists call Karma, the place where all of our decisions affect everyone. I want to believe my love makes a difference in the world. . .

Punch Drunk Love is a story told in the second person, and the (semi-autobiographical) narrator discloses her memories of and feelings for her former lover, along with some of her life's secrets. We are permitted to see how her ideas of romantic love and partnership are connected to her greater ideas of the world. We eventually begin to realize that the relationship in this story is so important to her because it is the one that represents and composes most of her life's philosophy, in the sense that sometimes loving a boyfriend isn't just loving a boyfriend - it's also changing the world.

I began to write this story while I was supposed to be typing up a poetry manuscript to send to Tightrope Books. Unfortunately, it seems, as I have very little confidence right now, typing it is a chore. I enjoy writing my poetry, I feel very much alive and engaged when I do, but when it comes to the idea of sharing for some reason I feel pressure. How could I possibly be an important poet, or even one that anyone would enjoy reading? Does anyone even like to read poetry anymore? I know I'm psyching myself out. There is always a reason to share even if I can't it figure it out. I know that if I can release my poems into the realm of the public then I can release them altogether myself, thereby resisting the urge to continue editing, shaping, and judging them eternally. So I push on, push on with the typing, taking frequent breaks like this one to indulge anyone who might be looking for some insight into someone else's thoughts right now. These are mine; I hope you don't mind my sharing, because it seems that I am prone to doing so.